Monday, December 17, 2007
These days, I work in a catering business for to earn a livin. If you didn't know this- sorry to shock ya'll- only persons of fair-to-middling or extraordinary wealth can afford to call a caterer. So everything has to be presented extra goddamn mutherfuckin fancy. That's my job. Specially this time of year-"The Holidays"- when lawyers, doctors, museum fatcats and the like loosen their purse-strings a bit to throw catered parties.
The answer is no. Absolutely not, if you were wondering if maybe there is some pecuniary trickle-down avalanche of prosperity for me. But this isn't really the topic I want to discuss here.
It is that the millionaires always request more than they and their guests can consume. 90% of the time, I tell ya. And because it must be unseemly, during some event involving white linen tablecloths and a crystal goblet containing a splash of the finest gewurtztramener.(sorry I'm a beer-drinker) for one to say aloud-"May I have a doggy bag" for this whatever the fuck it may be, could be salmon flown in from Peru, consequently, barques of what we so steadfastly send out, return, sailing elegantly into soup-pots as it can.
I carved 4 turkeys this week, transmogrified 5 styrofoam cases-"baby coffins"- of salmon into steaks that went with cilantro-macadamia butter or some other OOVY GROOVY FOOFOO CRAP. Hmm, yep it's been a long week. Yesterday we sent out a veggie lasagne dinner with garlic bread and stuff . It was a 30-banger, we were told. 5 persons showed up.
But y'now, you know, I know, methinks, well over half this planet's population will never experience the variety and immensities of the food I work with everyday. Or its ghastly, ghastly wastefulness .
Say you had my job, m'kay, and all this perfectly sound food comes back. You might wonder how long the line at the mission is, just down the road, or maybe you have a friend, or friends you know are not eating so well. So you might be considered a conscious philanthropist if you take all this food home or whatever. But here is yer boss- ie- the fella who pays you to create too much bourgeoisie viddles- and he thinks he pays you well (dumbass) and you know he kinda wants to be your buddy kind of (which creeps you out a little) but he is actually a pretty decent (dumbass) guy. So, could you shovel leftovers into your backpack before his very gaze? Then he thinks yer not able to get by on what he pays you. Not to mention, being an employee in a commercial kitchen and slipping out the back with a pillowcase of grub is always everywhere considered nefarious at best.
So December in Affluent America is a lucrative time for the owners of catering businesses, when whose kitchen garbage cans it takes two grown men to lift.